It’s Only Natural. A Poem by Griffin Silver.

a stone does not mean to be cruel
contained in arrogance
it just is

nations perpetually christened
in genocide
but they must be

domineering husbands
and the bartender
has a fat lip
but she has to

sacrifice the women,
the children
anything
for the survival
of the white man.

the oligarchy has finished eating
kind enough
to feed us the crust
embezzled with the phlegm
of each of their celestial
C.E.O.s

multi colored
multi variables
some reek of mustard gas
some are only stale,
with cyanide following,

silent
others bizzare shades and hues
anti freeze: bright blue
but finally another knot in my stomach
and the sweet taste in my mouth.

Bastards

“I can fuck any bitch I want”

Rattling off foul consonances and vowels

The terrible mantra boys

Chant off in the school yard

Like throwing mud on the third

Grade sweetheart

That makes their mother so ashamed

Ironic

They can say these things

Off the cuff

When the father

They’ve never met

Sits at a bar in Mexico

Says the exact same things

About their mothers.

We know how it feels to sit

On top of the world

And spit on the creatures below

Like birds on a telephone wire

Waiting for the one wearing

The worst day

To add insult to injury

Meninism: Closer to the Truth

I still see your face everywhere I go

The sordid expression

Menacing whispers of pain

If I didn’t have to hurt

Would you remain so

Armed and guarded?

Ready to take the tip of the tongue

From any sweet talking man?

Would you remain

A warrior christened in blood?

A Feminine Ball of Yarn

 

*Written from a woman’s perspective.

 

Tufts of thread out of the palm of his hand. A spool of yarn slowly undone down curling dirt roads. Our steps are not our own as we’re dragged down the trail littered with pot holes, but we refuse to let the yarn hit the ground as we grow smaller and the man’s smiling face is far, his only sign a taut string following the curves in the horizon. I know I must be minuscule before I can gather myself to that smiling man for I am unwound. The strand frays and I struggle to stay inches above the cakes of mud.

To Choose Life

Times without number, taken in fluted reed Could be the dancer who Swore she would no, could not, hang up her shoes Neglect that spirit within who urged to move Still now, decades pass She has lost her edges, she is a filament of someone who Once danced in fury in all her youth and […]

via So quickly we forget the steps — thefeatheredsleep

And he can’t tell if those are callouses at the end of her toes

Or bloated cherries, boils oozing puss

At the end of each of the fifths of her tapering feet.

He shames her from progress

As she grows strong

Towering over the people

The industries, infrastructures,

Sizing up sky scrapers,

 

He’s shrunk

Feels as a stain on the sidewalk

For the ego kept him strong

Termite infested crutches

Fire licking away at

The wood’s soft center

And he doesn’t have

A leg to stand on.

 

The footprints

Left across her malleable frame

We send Mother to the camps

Get her working in the lines,

Heaven knows if ma

Gets out of hand

Gaia will swallow us whole

 

They carve away

Beneath the surface

Rotting jack o lantern

Toss the slop in the trash

Her vital organs.

We’ve progressed

From butcher house cutting board

To scabbing through

demonstration

flanking Planned Parenthood

for the surrender

The only thing worse

To make the choice

“Life,”

Not death

Condemned

For loving the little she had